


Four Times John Called Ianto “Eye Candy”, and Once When He Thought Better of It

by heddychaa



Category: Torchwood
Genre: 5 Times, Community: tw_gleeclub, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Power Play, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2010-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:13:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heddychaa/pseuds/heddychaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto teaches John some manners. It's a process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times John Called Ianto “Eye Candy”, and Once When He Thought Better of It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steplianna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steplianna/gifts).



> Written as part of the [Gold Hightops Challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/tw_gleeclub/21755.html) for charity. She requested "Ianto/John Hart PWP" and "Ianto tormenting Hart every time he says 'Eye Candy'". Somehow I turned her request for "Sexually confident!Ianto" into Dom!Ianto, but eh, I rolled with it. MMM, POWERPLAY.
> 
> azn_jack_fiend beta-ed it, and made sure there weren't any overly flexible necks.

**One.**

A scan for alien tech leads him to a squatter-occupied warehouse, full of dust and graffiti and discarded needles underfoot. He tips over a full shopping cart with a boot and toes through what spills out of it, looking for the source of the blip on his vortex manipulator.

That's when the lights go out.

It's pitch black. His vortex manipulator sends a steady, trilling beep out into the dark, like a satellite's signal in deep space. He draws his guns.

Footsteps crunch through the gravel and broken glass. Even, slow footsteps. Swaggering footsteps. John holds his guns at his sides, his whole body stretching out taut and tense like a bowstring.

A voice reaches him in the dark. Casual, smug: "Undermining Torchwood's authority again, are you?"

Ianto Jones, somewhere behind him. They haven't played _this_ game before.

"Can't help myself," John calls out into the dark, staying in place. He doesn't mind being found.

He doesn't holster his guns. Yet.

Warm, soft hands ghost over the skin of his throat, reaching over his shoulders to stroke down his chest possessively. Gathering him in. A firm body steps up close behind him, fits against him sure and easy. Ianto Jones' chest presses against him as he breathes.

"Not good enough, Captain." The voice is in his ear now, a husky whisper. He feels a warm breath of air tickle through his hair. One of those roaming hands slips inside John's jacket, finding his nipple through the worn fabric of his t-shirt and giving it a chastening twist. John hisses, but doesn't struggle. His hands tighten around the grip of his guns.

"Try again," Ianto challenges, headmaster in his tone. Must have heard it a lot to be able to emulate it so well. John feels another hand gliding up to his throat, where it rests lightly. The threat in the gesture is apparent. He can't help but twist, now, if only to try and lessen the awkward tightness of his jeans.

Ianto's nose traces a line down the side of John's neck, and then he stops, nipping at the skin where neck and shoulder meet. John swallows down a groan. The grips of his guns are slippery in his palms. "What do you have to say for yourself?" Ianto asks into his skin, his breath cooling the patch of saliva his mouthing bite has left.

"Oh, Eye Candy!" John exclaims, tilting his head back to expose his throat to the air, making himself helpless. He wants to be on his knees. He wants Ianto Jones to boot the backs of his kneecaps to force him down. Run a teasing hand over his neck and collarbone and shoulder and chest as he circles him. Tug his hair and fuck his mouth.

"Wrong answer," Ianto chides, displeased, and vanishes like a ghost.

He doesn't turn the lights back on.

 

 **Two.**

"Do you know what you do to me?" he asks, although it comes out more a growl. One of those mindless things people say when they're fucking. His hands are on Ianto's hips, his thumbs stretching to fit into the dimples in his lower back.

Ianto Jones just smiles back over his shoulder at him, wincing (although it's more like a wink, really) when John drives into him. Because he knows what he does to John. He knows all about it.

He's so _close_. Biting his lip close. Screwing his eyes shut on the in-stroke close.

And Ianto is taking him, smiling smugly, knowingly, right through the indignities of a sweaty face and panting mouth. And John _can't take it_ , being the one to lose himself. Because no, he's supposed to be the experienced one, and he's supposed to be the one nailing Ianto to the mattress, and he's supposed to be the one making him moan and whimper and beg.

And Ianto _is_ moaning, that's half the fucking problem. He's moaning and gasping and wincing a little as John pounds him, but all the while it's _John_ who's losing control, it's _John_ who's being pushed over the edge into utter madness.

"God fucking _damnit_ , Eye Candy!" he grits out in frustration, thrusting in deep and feeling Ianto's tightness all around him.

A hand takes him by the wrist, firmly, and he opens his eyes. Ianto Jones, or what John can see of him in this awkwardly twisted position, anyway, is glowering out of the corner of his eye. His body has gone stiff, and not in the way you'd expect in this situation. No, more along the lines of 'at the dinner table with grandma' stiff. Everything about his body language says "Stop," so John does. (He's not _that_ much of a scoundrel, thank you.)

Very primly, _surprisingly_ primly, Ianto slips right off of John's cock, leaving John kneeling, bewildered, on the bed.

"What!" he exclaims as Ianto gathers pants and trousers and shirt, dressing without a word. "What did I _say_?"

Ianto doesn't answer, just buttons his fly with steady thumbs.

"Come on, we're not finished!" he protests, watching Ianto looping his tie.

" _I_ am," he counters mildly. And it's true. John has already swallowed a mouthful of Ianto's come tonight.

Normally John feels smirking satisfaction when he stumbles upon some secret taboo or insult. The thrill of discovering an exploit, an emotional Achilles Heel for future reference.

But not with Ianto Jones. All he feels, when Ianto shuts the door behind him, is a sense of utter powerlessness.

 

 **Three.**

 _Come over._

\- I

John isn't exactly sure how Ianto Jones figured out how to send text messages to vortex manipulators, but it's a very clever little trick, worthy of a clever little man.

The message is deceptively simple. To most, it could mean "You need to see tonight's guest on Jonathan Ross," or, "I baked too much lasagne for one person," or even, "I can't figure out how to program this universal remote."

For them, it's more along the lines of "I had a bad day of work and want to take it out on your arse (with my cock, or possibly just my open-palmed hand)," or, "I just brushed my teeth and now I need the taste of cock in my mouth," or, "I want to kiss you senseless on my couch to the sweet soundtrack of crap telly."

Like he said. Deceptively simple. The fact that it's so unadorned, so ordinary, somehow makes it all the more intriguing.

So he's practically skipping to Ianto's flat, his cock jumping in his jeans at the thought of all the possibilities in that message.

When he gets to the door, he decides to play it suave. He knocks lightly with the backs of his knuckles and then leans against the doorframe, crossing legs and arms in his best James Dean impression.

The door opens two or three inches, still on the chain.

"You called, Eye Candy?" John drawls, holding up his vortex manipulator in illustration.

"Hmm," Ianto replies, and it almost sounds sarcastic. "Nope. Must've been a wrong number." He shuts the door without another word.

For the first couple of minutes, John loiters in the hallway, waiting to say, "Ha-ha!" and roll his eyes at the joke.

But the door doesn't reopen.

John knocks again, a little more desperate this time.

Several excruciating seconds later, he's once again looking at Ianto's peering face past the door's chain. "I told you," Ianto says, exasperated. "I'm _busy_."

The door closes.

 

 **Four.**

They're in a posh hotel John's borrowed for the night. The kind with a balcony, and a Jacuzzi tub, and real art, with physical brushstrokes, on the wall.

John is sitting naked on the end of the bed, his hands tied together behind him with Ianto's nautical-red tie, soft and slippery over his wrists but knotted surprisingly firmly. _Competently_ , one might say.

Ianto, fully dressed except for the tie, is pacing back and forth across the space of the room, turning sharp on his shiny heel like a soldier.

"To be quite honest," he says, stopping on one turn with his back to John, hands caught lightly behind his back in some obscene mimicry of John's position. "I'm not exactly sure you deserve for me to take advantage of you right now."

A hot flush creeps over John's skin, looking at Ianto like that, fully dressed, stoic and disaffected and totally in control. John's hips lift from the bed subconsciously, moving as if with a mind of their own. He shakes his head. He doesn't _get_ like this. If there's anyone who's going to be a snide prick in this room, it's him.

"Wait, is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" He tries to undermine Ianto's position of authority, make him second-guess himself. "I mean, not deserving to be taken advantage of, that sounds like a compliment. But you probably mean 'take advantage of' in the give me a blowjob sense, so that means it's an insult--"

"Shut up," Ianto snaps, no trace of insecurity or indecision in his tone.

Despite himself, John shuts up.

"That's just what I was talking about. You're always running your mouth," Ianto lectures, and he rings his hands in a contrived gesture of frustration. John finds himself imitating it, twisting his own hands in their bindings, except for him the frustration's real. "You're long overdue for a lesson in manners."

The word "manners", the way he says it, clipped and emotionally distant, sends a shudder all the way down John's spine. He feels suddenly eager to please, sitting up straighter, shoulders back. Ianto isn't even turned around to witness it, but he does it anyway.

With an inward breath that seems strangely loud, Ianto turns and strolls right up to John. "Knees," he says, an eye roll in his voice like he can't even believe how criminally slow John is.

John spreads his legs, his jutting cock exposed. Ianto steps in between his legs, the fabric of his trousers tickling the inside of John's thighs. "What I'd like," Ianto muses aloud, and John doesn't dare interrupt. "Is to suck your cock and feel like you deserve it, you know?" He seems genuinely disappointed that he can't.

John bites down a reflexive apology. He's not that man. He's not going to be that man.

"So here's what I propose," Ianto continues after a moment, seeming satisfied that John hasn't interrupted. He drops formally to one knee, and then the other, maintaining his posture. Just the sight of him down there, though, prostrated, wedged between John's knees-- it's maddening. John actually grunts. Winces!

"You're going to try your very best to open your mouth and not make a twat of yourself, alright?" He tilts his head up (oh fuck, he _tilts his head up_ ) and flashes John a patronizing tight-lipped smile. "Okay go. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?"

He _doesn't know_. He doesn't fucking know what Ianto _wants_. And all he can do is twist his hands uselessly, feeling the slip of silk over his wristbones, and look at the top of Ianto's head, and wish he could have his hands in his hair, pushing that head down. Or, fuck, with his boot on Ianto's shoulder, the back of his neck, forcing him down until he noses the floor.

"Please," he tries, and it's humiliating. Thank the powers that be for small mercies; he doesn't blush.

"Please _what_?" Ianto asks him, tracing a cruel finger over John's kneecap. John can't help but tremble. From this angle, John can see the shape of his nose, the splay of his eyelashes over his cheeks when he half-closes his eyes in an expression of disinterest. John's cock _throbs_. It's almost painful. He needs Ianto's mouth on him _yesterday_.

Ianto seems lost in thought, his pointed pink tongue flickering out to dampen his upper lip.

"Please, Eye Candy!" he drawls, because he's angry, now, and he doesn't like this power dynamic one bit, and if Ianto thinks he's going to be obedient, he's absolutely wrong. ( _Come the fuck on!_ )

Ianto's eyebrow pops up, his expression unreadable. He seems almost amused. He stands; brushes at John's knee absent-mindedly with one hand.

"Not what I was looking for," he replies, "But since I'm feeling charitable, I'll give you a passing grade for effort, at least."

John's chest puffs out. He manages to suppress a smirk.

In answer, Ianto smiles wanly. "So I'm going to let you turn around, lie flat on your belly on the bed, and I'm going to watch you hump the mattress until you're spent." For such a cherubic, boyish face, he has an uncanny ability to look positively wicked.

John glowers up at him, hands balling into fists.

"What do you say?" Ianto prompts, and has the fucking gall to bat his eyelashes.

"Thank you," John replies.

 

 **Five.**

Four double screwdrivers, three tequila bodyshots (each) from the bellybuttons of a dark-eyed sort of bloke and giggly redhead girl, a fizzy Jack and Coke, and several more Irish Carbombs than is strictly appropriate later, John is sitting at the bar nursing a pint of Magner's and feeling surprisingly morose. Maybe it's because dark-eyes declined a quick fuck in the loo, choosing instead to give John his number (what the fuck is he supposed to do with _that_ , anyway?). Maybe it's the fact that Jack Harkness (excuse him, _Captain_ Jack Harkness) has just sauntered in, flanked by a delectably plainclothes Ianto Jones.

Here's the thing. John isn't normally a mean drunk. Well, he is a mean drunk, but it's a cheerful sort of meanness. John isn't normally a self-pitying drunk, how about that?

And John loves Jack Harkness. He gets butterflies when he sees him; like they're still nineteen-ish and agency recruits, and he's watching the Face of Boe grinning and posturing across the cafeteria.

John likes Ianto Jones, too. Likes his slow smile and eye rolls and the way he's calmly authoritative, fuck or be-fucked.

But it's a little bit like chocolate and spaghetti. Both excellent on their own, but absolutely beyond saving if you try them together. John hates the sight of Ianto following Jack around, taking his coat, and John hates the way Jack tells Ianto all his old jokes and Ianto touches his arm just so.

He isn't sure if he's jealous over Jack or Ianto, anymore.

So he does the only sensible thing, in this situation: he makes a beeline for their table. Well, tries to. There's that moment, there, where he lurches and veers off dangerously to the left, but he's still _intending_ to reach Jack and Ianto, so that must count, right?

When he finally makes it over, he slams his hands down on their table, leaning his body in between them. Ianto recoils slightly, nose scrunching, but Jack stays right where he is, never one to mind intrusions into his personal space.

Jack is holding Ianto's hand on the table. Jack's thumb is rhythmically sweeping over the ridges of Ianto's knuckles. He doesn't let go.

John feels a prickle run up his back, as if he's a cat puffing its fur. He leers between them, rolling his head on his neck like a ragdoll. "Well, well, well!" he slurs, dropping to his elbows with a clatter. Jack catches his wobbling glass of water instinctively, levelling John with a mild smile, although there's annoyance behind his eyes. Ianto is watching him as if with purely intellectual interest, lips pursed, eyebrows very slightly raised.

"I _said_ ," John tries again, louder, thoroughly aggravated now, and knocks against Ianto's shoulder in a way that should look accidental, "Well! Well! Well! If it isn't the Captain and. . . and. . . Cock Candy!"

Jack glares at him like he wants to take it outside. A bird at a nearby table, somewhere at his shoulder, lets out a shrieking, scandalized laugh. Ianto merely sucks a shaky breath through his nose and rises to his feet.

"I'll take him home, Sir," he tells a nodding Jack, all exasperation.

As Ianto walks him out of the bar, his fingertips dig hard into John's upper arm. His nails bite into John's skin right through the jacket.

 _You've been bad, you've been very very bad._

John knows better than to let himself grin.


End file.
